


To You Always

by autoschediastic



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: M/M, Marathon Sex, PWP, Prostate Milking, Semi-established relationship, witcher stamina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22640389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: Long life has taught Geralt patience, Jaskier is not nearly as drunk as he thinks he is, and every man has their limits.“What are you doing?”“What am I doing,” Jaskier mocked sourly as he scrubbed. “What does itlooklike I’m doing. I’m not about to make love to you stinking of roast mutton and cheap perfume!”As Jaskier surfaced from rinsing soap from his face, Geralt said reasonably, “There are worse things than mutton.”“I’m not going to make love to you stinking of those either!”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 72
Kudos: 1294
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Best Geralt, Good ones, wiedźmin





	To You Always

**Author's Note:**

> Again, many thanks to [katherine_tag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherine_tag/pseuds/katherine_tag) for struggling through untold hotness to deliver a very excellent beta. :D
> 
> Also again, this is a mix of Netflix (majority), game, and book canon cherry-picked for my own enjoyment. Technically set pre-episode 1.06 "The Dragon Hunt" but easily shoehorned into the books/games.

“When a humble bard graced a ride along,” sang Jaskier as he sauntered down the dark hallway, the noise of the common room long since quieted, “with Geralt of Rivia,” —here he added a naughty little hip thrust— “along came...this... _stupid door_.” 

He jiggled the handle, wriggled the key, pushed harder, grunted irritably when it refused to budge. Singing menacingly under his breath, he loosened up his shoulders and set one solidly to the door. He gave a mighty heave, then another. A third. It gave way on the next and he burst triumphantly through, hollering, “He can’t be bleat!”

“Good,” said Geralt, freezing Jaskier mid-step. “There you are.”

Jaskier slowly put his foot down. He stared. And stared. Then carefully backed out into the hall and firmly closed the door. 

It _looked_ like the back hall of the Harvest Lily, one of Temeria’s premier establishments—definitely a personal favourite—and not some evil sorcerous trap. It smelled right, a precise mix of food and booze and bodies overlaid with the fading scent of its eponymous flowers. He poked the brass number on the door and found it exactly as it should be right down to the loose nail.

“Jaskier!” came Geralt’s muffled bellow. 

Jaskier glanced around suspiciously one more time. As before he shook out his shoulders in preparation, then closed his eyes quite firmly. He groped for the handle and fought the door open and shut again with two reassuringly solid scrape-thumps. Braced against it, he cautiously opened his eyes. 

There lay Geralt, lounging fantastically naked on the very bed Jaskier had intended to occupy for a much-deserved rest. A rest, it would seem, that was far overdue, considering his pleasant nighttime dreams had become waking hallucinations.

Geralt frowned. “What are you doing?”

Jaskier paused with the heel of one hand thumped against the side of his head. “Knocking some sense into myself. Oh no, don’t _talk_ to it. Caught conversing with no one, that’s an excellent way to get tossed into the street.”

“How drunk are you, Jaskier?”

”Hard to say,” Jaskier replied automatically. While it came as no surprise how realistic this Geralt seemed—he _was_ rather intimately acquainted with a certain witcher’s cranky ways—he had just begun to note the things aside from a very naked man that hadn’t been in his room only a few hours ago. 

First he spotted the used towel crumpled on the floor, which was peculiar if only because the tub beside it was much larger and therefore far more noticeable. The air was humid, though it must have been some time since the bath had been drawn as it no longer steamed, and scented lightly with soap, worn leather, and the unique tang of various and sundry witcher-brewed concoctions. As always Geralt’s things were neatly stored in an obsessive fashion, the fire was set just so in the hearth, and even the many candles had been moved about to suit his preferences. Jaskier, like most, habitually kept at least one within reach of the bed for midnight visits to the lavatory whereas Geralt objected long and loud to bright lights stabbing him in the face while he tried to sleep. One day Jaskier would commission the fancy leather eye mask he had threatened Geralt with the night he practically broke his foot trying to relieve himself. 

All in all, he was proud of his steadfast attention to detail. Even uncertain at the exact—or approximate—amount he’d drank that evening, it _had_ been a lot, and to summon up such details as Geralt’s habit to place steel sword in closer reach than silver was impressive. 

“I see you’re here to declare your undying love for me,” Jaskier said casually. There was little point pretending he would ever not talk to Geralt, even if Geralt was a figment of his alcohol-addled imagination. “Ooh, and offer up your body to sate my most perverse unholy desires.” He grinned lasciviously and waggled both eyebrows. 

Geralt smiled. Oh, he liked this imagined witcher very much. While true this smile wasn’t much more than a minuscule uptilt at the very corners of his mouth, it had happened so _easily_. “More the latter than the former, but close enough.”

“Oh, no.” Jaskier waved a finger playfully. “No, my stupendously endowed friend, that won’t do at all. You see,” he said, marching to the bedside, “as this is _my_ sexually frustrated fantasy— _shit_.” Stumbling rather realistically over his own feet, he quickly righted himself. Bad enough was that the actual Geralt single-handedly destroyed his legendary bedroom prowess with a sideways glance, it was entirely unfair that a figment of his fevered imagination could do the same. 

Another point for verisimilitude, he supposed. 

Jaskier brushed lint from his sleeve and carried on. “As the manifestation of my deep devotion and unbridled lust, you have to do both. Possibly simultaneously. Oh yes,” he mused. “Definitely simultaneously, I like that.”

While Jaskier spoke, Geralt had settled back against the pillows with one hand tucked under his head. The other sat conspicuously low on his stomach. Once again Jaskier had to give credit where credit was due; it was quite possible this hallucination of his was even more spectacular than the real thing. 

The flickering candles were a lovely touch, wonderfully warming Geralt’s pale skin and drawing the eye to each and every beautifully sculpted muscle even as it cast other parts in enticing shadow. His hair, left loose about his handsome face, was perfectly tousled and so clean it shone; Jaskier’s hands itched to sink into it, feel it thick and warm as fur on his skin. From head to toe, in fact, every single shaft was the ideal shade of silver-white and lovingly, expertly placed; light on his arms and legs, slightly fuller on his chest, thinning again as it trailed down his belly and steadily widened at his groin. 

And oh, his cock, how Jaskier’s mouth watered at the sight. Not the gentle slump he knew so well from Geralt’s predilection towards casual nudity when sharing living space or trekking through the wilds, but thick and full, flushed dark, the glistening head bared. It seemed deliberate how the blood-rich vein on the underside hooked his gaze, dragged it willingly down to the soft, tender flesh of Geralt’s balls and the shadows beneath.

Jaskier swallowed harshly and belatedly discovered he had fallen to his knees beside the bed. Afraid to shatter the illusion he almost stopped there, but impulse control was not his forte when it came to matters of the bedchamber. Or Geralt. 

He held his breath as he set a gentle hand to Geralt’s stubbled jaw, and when the vision remained he forgot all about breathing. His fingers shook only a fraction as he traced the line of Geralt’s brow, thumbed over the slight bump high on his nose and down to lips far more soft and plush than one might guess. A side effect of speeded healing, Geralt suggested when Jaskier had first asked, as his own lips were wind-chapped and tender. Though a kiss hadn’t healed them, for a time Jaskier had forgotten they hurt. 

“So this is how that reputation came about,” Geralt said, breath warm and damp on the pad of Jaskier’s thumb almost like one of those kisses. “The poet is a gentle lover, but not so gentle when he’s balls-deep in an eager body I hope.”

Jaskier choked on the hard punch of lust into his gut. He liked a bawdy ballad as much as the next man, and while a crude turn of phrase was very much in line with Geralt’s character, in this particular situation it wouldn’t be Jaskier’s first, second, or third choice. Not even his seventh. The lighting, the atmosphere, the anticipatory hush, all of those were the sorts of things Jaskier would absolutely employ in a seduction. He had most likely said as much during one of the many times over the years Geralt hungered so deeply for human touch that he accepted Jaskier’s offers to make out like temple virgins. Geralt had so far made great use of his extended lifespan, as he was an exceptionally talented kisser. 

Jaskier breathed deeply and curled his hand into a tight, deliberate fist. “I’m not nearly as drunk as I thought, am I.”

Geralt made a thoughtful noise. “I don’t know how drunk you thought you were, but I’m pleased to see not so drunk you can’t stand straight.”

Jaskier snorted. It was far from a compliment on his posture given the heavy ache in his groin and the glint in Geralt’s eyes.

...the _playful_ glint. 

“Son of a,” Jaskier growled, and punched Geralt in the arm so hard his knuckles popped. He didn’t even get a wince for his trouble. “What the _fuck_ , Geralt!”

“I thought it was time,” Geralt said in his annoyingly forthright way. “The flirting was nice. Novel at first and at times frustrating given you never shut up even when I tell you it’s dangerous to keep blabbering. The kissing was better. And better than that would be a good fuck.” He shrugged. 

“You couldn’t have just _said_? Maybe _while_ the kissing you like so much was happening?”

Geralt looked at him oddly. “I did.”

“When!”

“When I kissed back. Take off your clothes.”

Jaskier somehow managed to scramble up and out of reach. “Oh no,” he said, furiously tugging at laces and buttons, “you stay right where you are, witcher. ‘When I kissed back’, what a— a—“

He had no words. There _were_ no words for this bull. He flung his underclothes at Geralt’s head and stomped into the bath. Of course it was stone cold. At least he didn’t intend on lingering. 

Geralt leaned up on his elbows. “What are you doing?”

“What am I doing,” Jaskier mocked sourly as he scrubbed. “What does it _look_ like I’m doing. I’m not about to make love to you stinking of roast mutton and cheap perfume!”

As Jaskier surfaced from rinsing soap from his face, Geralt said reasonably, “There are worse things than mutton.”

“I’m not going to make love to you stinking of those either!” he shrilled. 

“But you _are_ going to.”

If Jaskier weren’t so caught up in his completely justifiable outrage, he might’ve given more credence to the hint of uncertainty there. Or possibly not, since as far as he was concerned in what reality would he _not_ thread the ol’ needle with Geralt. 

Which begged the question, he thought as he grabbed the crumpled towel more to avoid soaking the bedclothes than any real need to dry off, if Geralt had propositioned him years ago now and several times since, did that mean Geralt wasn’t prepared to take no for a final answer? How long had this plan been brewing? What sort of plan was unexpectedly showing up buck naked in your intended paramour’s bed in an inn in the middle of a Temerian winter?

Firmly in the grips of racing thoughts and tumultuous emotion— Could they have done this back when he barely had two decades under his belt? What sort of performance was Geralt expecting from a thirty-five year old middle-aged man past his prime? —Jaskier stalked to the foot of the bed and barked, “Up on your knees!”

In a detached sort of way Jaskier marvelled at his own audacity. Such a fine line between bravery and stupidity, he thought, and then he thought absolutely nothing at all because Geralt had merely cocked a brow, rolled over, and presented his glorious ass. 

Jaskier fumbled twice trying to climb onto the bed. Never before in his life had he felt such a need to fall on his knees as if before an altar and worship. Comparing his loves was not his way; all were beautiful, all were in that moment the absolute center of his universe. But none were Geralt. 

Reverently, Jaskier’s put hands on a body as familiar to him as his own, one he had bathed and doctored and cared for, and still it felt like the first time. 

Geralt was a feast of sensation. So many scars but all so different, some ridged, some pocked, some rough, some slick as glass. In places—the small of his back, the crook of his thigh, behind his knee, his ankle, the very middle of the arch of his foot—his skin was impossibly soft, thin. In others, it was covered in the artful spread of body hair that scraped and tickled Jaskier’s palms. Jaskier stroked up the length of his spine, followed it back down again with hands spread and thumbs pressed to either side of it. He caressed, grazed, filled his hands with firm flesh and gently squeezed just to feel its give. 

Geralt held still as Jaskier explored, breathing slow and heavy, his head bowed low. He spread his knees in a clear request that had Jaskier biting down on a groan. Instead Jaskier leaned close over his back, pressed an open-mouthed kiss where neck and shoulder met with the muscle pulled taut.

“Oil’s on the floor,” Geralt said, tilting his head to expose more of his neck. “Knocked it over with your boot.”

Jaskier hummed and lazily continued his trail of kisses. His chin bumped the sharp jut of shoulder blade so he lingered there, tasted it and caught the edge with his teeth, bit down. The sudden jump of muscle was so satisfying he shifted to a fresh spot and did it again, then again. And again until Geralt rewarded him with a groan. 

Jaskier scooped up a vial with a stained cork, weighed it. “Not much left.”

“It’s enough.”

“We’ll see,” Jaskier said, setting it down where it rolled and bumped into Geralt’s calf. He shook his head to clear it and again put hands on Geralt. He pushed a little there, tugged here, and Geralt simply _let_ him do as he liked until Geralt’s chest was flush to the bed, knees spread wide, hips canted high. 

Jaskier bought a moment to catch his breath by stroking along Geralt’s flank. The shadows weren’t deep enough now to hide much of anything, but still a small scrap of modesty remained. “You know what I want to do.”

Face half-buried in the pillows, Geralt simply nodded. 

“I want it so much,” Jaskier said, and just by that alone the desire for it spiked, made him ache. He spread his hands at the small of Geralt’s back, thumbs angled in. His heartbeat thundered. He could barely breathe, he was twisted up so tightly in a heady mix of anticipation and arousal and impatience. He let his hands drift down to the cheeks of Geralt’s ass, thumbs just skimming along the crack and then pressing close to his hole. Close, so close the heat of it made Jaskier’s head spin. It would take so little to expose Geralt completely. “Are you going to let me?”

“For fuck’s sake, Jaskier,” Geralt bit out. 

“I didn’t think it’d be like this.” Jaskier laughed ruefully, bent close to kiss between his splayed fingers, tasting the first hints of salt sweat on clean skin. “Never in all the Spheres— Oh, I wanted it.” He dragged his mouth up to the tip of Geralt’s tailbone, flicked it with his tongue. “With all your years even you might not believe some of the things I want.”

All through Geralt’s body muscles tensed, relaxed. The arch of his back sharpened. “Tell me later.”

Strained from holding back, Jaskier said, “You tell me now,” half-hoping Geralt wouldn’t, that he’d let Jaskier drive them both further yet, fill them with lust beyond bearing. Hoped for it, and dreaded it. Already burning with need he brought his mouth close, felt his own heavy breath wash hot over his thumbs. 

“Then do it,” Geralt said, a grating growl fully at odds with the fitful shift of his hips. “Take what you want—“

Jaskier hesitated, torn for one terrible second between wanting to look, to see what Geralt would do if he gave this part of him the same long scrutiny and gentle exploration he had the rest, and the filthy yearning to put his mouth to it instead. 

“Do it,” Geralt said, and if he meant it to be a demand it fell far short; all Jaskier heard was the same longing he felt and that was more than enough. He shoved his face right into the crack of Geralt’s ass, licked and licked at Geralt’s hole, felt tight muscle give under the push of his tongue, letting him in. He muffled a groan in hot, hidden flesh and drew back to lick again at the rim, traced it over and over with the tip of his tongue, revelling in every eager twitch. Shamelessly he sucked on skin so delicate it trembled and tightened at the scrape of teeth, quivered and loosened under soft kisses. He fucked his tongue into Geralt again and again until it was sore, until his jaw ached, and still he didn’t stop. 

With Geralt’s ragged moans filling his head, he didn’t think he could ever stop. Geralt pushed greedily into every touch, arched his back and took hold of his own ass to keep the cheeks spread and free up Jaskier’s hands. He groaned for more when Jaskier rubbed a thumb close beside his tongue and pushed just a little; grunted in surprise when Jaskier hooked the rim, pulled. When Jaskier finally licked at exposed flesh, he cursed in language Jaskier didn’t know and for that alone Jaskier pulled a little more, let him feel the stretch and the rush of cooler air. 

Lips and tongue tingling, Jaskier finally eased back enough to watch. “There’ll be more than enough oil if I just use my fingers. I’m sure I could make you come,” he said, and gladly demonstrated how strong and skilled they were as he played with Geralt’s hole—rubbing and pulling again at the rim, slipping him just the tip of one finger after another—listening to Geralt’s breath catch and stutter. “Oh, _oh_. I could watch you fuck yourself on them, that would be amazing.” He sighed dreamily, only partly putting Geralt on. “Can you imagine.”

Geralt turned a glare over his shoulder and said, “Even now you talk too much.”

“Now, now,” Jaskier chided, and felt more of his playfulness slip away as he met Geralt’s heavy-lidded gaze. Sweat had darkened his hair at the roots. His mouth was soft and open, his lips reddened—from his teeth, Jaskier saw, as he licked at his upper lip and then scraped away sweat and spit both. Without thought Jaskier planted a hand firmly between Geralt’s shoulder blades and leaned up to bump their mouths together in brief almost-kisses; a gentle brush of skin, the catch and rub of lips made wet dried again in their mixing breath, and Geralt’s sudden hitching moan as he caught the scent of his own body on Jaskier’s lips and tongue.

Geralt surged up, tried to take Jaskier’s mouth. Somehow he missed, absently cursed and tried again; Jaskier brazenly let him get close and marvelled as he failed second time. 

“It seems lust makes all of us clumsy,” Jaskier said, putting on a good show of cocky self-assurance even as his mind reeled. He wasn’t fool enough to think he could dodge Geralt even if they weren’t pressed skin to skin. “Do you want a kiss? Or do you—“

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, and if by some miracle Jaskier lived a hundred lifetimes he would never forget the exact sound of his name then, dark and dangerous but a plea nonetheless. “I want you to fuck me. And shut up.” 

Since Geralt hadn’t exactly specified—but mostly because he wanted to—he slid his middle finger into Geralt as far as he could and then all the way out again, slowly and steadily, again and again.

Almost immediately he regretted it. They both _knew_ that wasn’t what Geralt meant but suddenly they were deeply committed to the strangest game of chicken ever played, Jaskier determined to finger Geralt until he cried mercy and begged for a proper fuck, and Geralt to moan and rut until Jaskier’s balls ached so badly he had no choice but to stick him or explode. 

Jaskier’s legs started shaking before Geralt’s, but he wasn’t the one with a finger up his ass. He doubled down and too late realized his mistake. Not only did he have to resist the lure of replacing his finger with his cock--which he very much wanted to do--he had an excellent idea of what that would feel like because his _finger_ was in Geralt’s _ass_ and Geralt played dirty, clenching and releasing in an incredible display of muscle control.

“Mother of...” Jaskier groaned, and fumbled for the oil, “fine, _fine_ , you win.” He hurriedly slicked up his cock and kneed closer, biting at the inside of his cheek. When that proved insufficient, he roughly clamped a hand to his balls and tugged. Spots danced briefly in front of his eyes.

“Alright?” he asked, and like a fool gave in to the temptation to rut, thumb crooked over his cock so it bumped and rubbed maddeningly along Geralt’s crack. 

“No,” said Geralt, and Jaskier instantly froze, but Geralt went on, ground out, “because you haven’t put it _in me_.”

Jaskier cursed and bit his lip hard enough to taste blood as he gave his sack another cruel tug. “Stay still,” he grunted, settling his cock into place, “and don’t—” He couldn’t help but stare at his cockhead nestled snug against Geralt’s hole. On a silent prayer that he last more than five seconds, he pushed, felt Geralt’s body eagerly give way. “Don’t rush me,” he finally gasped.

“Then don’t stop,” Geralt snarled back. He braced his elbows and shoved.

Jaskier grabbed at Geralt’s hips, oil-slick hands skidding down to lodge in the crook of his thighs. He tightened his grip, helpless to do anything but hang on as Geralt rocked back, steadily worked Jaskier’s cock further and deeper until their bodies were flush. 

“Let me, let me,” Jaskier said, and moaned softly as Geralt stilled. He briefly flexed his hands to uncramp his fingers. Geralt was so very tight his eyes nearly crossed as he pulled back.

He groped for the vial, breathed, “Wait, just wait,” as he upended it directly onto his cock where he was still half-buried in Geralt’s incredible heat. Then he tossed it carelessly aside, again took hold of Geralt and fucked into him as hard as he dared. 

Geralt’s ragged moan hit him like a physical blow. Desperate to hear another he pulled further back, thrust again, Geralt still so tight around him that it almost hurt except for how very much it didn’t. He shook with the effort of holding steady, fucking into Geralt long and slow until his thighs burned. 

“Tell me you like it,” he said, bent low over Geralt’s back, “say it’s good, Geralt, please,” and even though he pleaded, he didn’t expect Geralt to do exactly as he asked, to hear him say _yes_ and _fuck_ and _harder_. 

For a brief, beautiful moment Jaskier lost all control. Geralt had loosened enough on his cock that every snap of his hips was loud and stinging against Geralt’s beautifully rounded ass. He choked on a sharp inhale, frightfully close to the edge; his chest and balls both ached terribly when he fully withdrew.

“What the _fuck_ ,” snapped Geralt, rearing up.

Panting heavily, Jaskier said, “Roll over, I want to see your face.”

Geralt grabbed roughly at the back of Jaskier’s neck and kissed with more teeth and tongue than lips. Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut as Geralt twisted fully around beneath him. If he hadn’t groped every inch of Geralt already he’d call the witcher lithe for how gracefully he moved. It absolutely wasn’t fair that someone so muscular could feel as supple as a sapling.

Jaskier felt his balance slowly waver, head swimming in the dark. His eyes snapped open, searching for something to focus on, and noticed in a vague sort of dizziness that Geralt had sat up and pushed him down in his place. He managed to croak, “What?” before Geralt kissed him with such a tenderness Jaskier thought _now_ he must be dreaming.

“Lie down,” Geralt said, stroking Jaskier’s thigh like he would a skittish horse. The rumpled quilts were hot against his back, smelled strongly of soap and sex and whatever it was that was uniquely Geralt. He sucked in a wheezing breath as Geralt casually straddled his hips, took hold of his cock in a freshly-slicked hand and rose up, began to slowly sit down on it. 

Jaskier’s nails dug into Geralt’s thighs. Dozens of words flittered through his head—heavenly, bewitching, delectable—during the eternity it took until Geralt settled on his lap. He may have even said most of them out loud. Geralt’s hands grasped at his, weight pinning Jaskier to the bed while he rocked his hips, pleasured himself on Jaskier’s aching cock. 

Jaskier made himself dizzy again trying to look everywhere at once; the sinuous roll of Geralt’s body; the way Geralt’s mouth fell open, lips soft and wet; how his eyes slid shut in bliss and his brow furrowed each time he took Jaskier to the root like all he wanted in the world was the bittersweet ache of being stuffed so full he could hardly stand it. 

Jaskier shook a hand free to reach for his cock, so thick and hard it curved flush against his belly, and Geralt unsteadily grabbed it up again, said, “No, not yet.”

Jaskier twisted both hands up into the bedclothes. Sweat tickled at his neck, gathered slick where Geralt’s thighs gripped his body. “You’re going to kill me,” he declared with utmost certainty. “I’m going to die the—“ he gasped as Geralt clenched, ground against him “—the sweetest death, oh my sweet merciful fuck.”

Driven beyond reason, Jaskier braced his heels and fucked up so hard Geralt fell forward. Greedily Jaskier hauled him closer, gripped his ass to feel the jolt of every smacking thrust. Geralt’s face pressed to Jaskier’s throat, his hair sticking to their mingled sweat, dragging deliciously over skin when he leaned up and moaned curses into Jaskier’s jaw. Caught rubbing between them his cock dug into Jaskier’s stomach so hard he swore he could feel in it Geralt’s throbbing pulse. 

So fierce was the pleasure Jaskier nearly missed the moment Geralt came. He felt Geralt’s groan against his neck first, then the hot wet spill coating his belly. Geralt’s cock smearing it all over them both nearly did him in. Stubbornly he held on, fucked Geralt through each fresh wave, felt it from the inside.

Geralt’s low, vibrating groan pitched higher, turned desperate; he clutched at Jaskier’s shoulders and shook his head violently when Jaskier tried to slow. He started fucking himself on Jaskier’s cock again and that was it, Jaskier came so hard he went deaf and blind. And Geralt still didn’t stop, not even when Jaskier felt his own come forced out hot and sticky on his balls. 

“Enough, enough,” Jaskier rasped as Geralt sat suddenly back, pinned him in place with his cock shoved deep. Even as Geralt finally heeded and slowed to a stop he could still feel the aftershocks of Geralt’s pleasure, oversharp and wonderful.

Jaskier tugged unsteadily at Geralt’s shoulder, urging him carefully up and off. The sudden rush of cold as Geralt tumbled to the bed was small relief compared to the hot drag of his cock sliding free. He lay dazed for a moment or two, breathing heavily. It took an incredible amount of energy to turn his head and he wasn’t certain if he tried to speak it would come out as anything more than a pathetic whine. Beside him, Geralt glowed with smug satisfaction.

“That,” Jaskier said, his voice an impressive wreck, “was transcendent.”

Geralt grunted agreeably and pulled Jaskier, limp and unresisting, to lie partly on top of him. 

“I ache in ways I never imagined I could.”

Another vague sound of agreement. 

“Not one for pillow talk, eh?”

“I’m busy,” Geralt said. “Transcending.”

“Well if you’re just going to lie there,” Jaskier said, watching Geralt’s face as he stroked a hand down his side, through the sticky mess on his belly and slowly, carefully, between his legs. Mostly it was a dare. Overly impressed with himself or not, Geralt had to be satisfied for now. 

Alas, learning from mistakes was not a skill Jaskier could boast. Already Geralt had been crowned king of sex chicken; all he did was spread his thighs a little, welcoming the touch of curious fingertips to swollen flesh. 

Of all the many, _many_ dirty things Jaskier had done—and highly enjoyed—in the bedroom, he couldn’t imagine one filthier than caressing Geralt’s well-fucked and come-wet hole. Somehow this casual exploration of what he’d done to Geralt was more intimate than the act itself. 

Geralt pressed his face to the top of Jaskier’s head and said, “Go ahead.”

Jaskier groaned at the pathetic little jerk of his exhausted cock. Then again, louder, when the tight bunch of three fingers sank easily all the way to the first knuckle. Geralt took hold of his arm and arched into it, shuddering when Jaskier found the perfect angle. 

“You have got to be kidding me,” Jaskier said in wonder, watching Geralt’s cock go from a nice sated plumpness to thick and needy. 

But Geralt was most assuredly _not_ playing around. He stretched languorously as Jaskier stroked, fingers buried as deep as they could go and thumb rubbing the taut rim. 

“Impossible,” Jaskier moaned, staring at the leaking head of Geralt’s cock. He had _just come_ , he couldn’t be ready to again. But he couldn’t still be leaking either—his balls were impressive, yes, but not comically massive. Despite it all Geralt had gone from relaxed to rutting in what had to be record time, as eager as if they’d just begun. Jaskier pressed harder against his tender insides and gaped, wide-eyed and disbelieving, as he tensed, came again.

“Incredible,” Jaskier mumbled, biting at Geralt’s lips. It wasn’t a kiss so much as a frantic tasting of Geralt’s mouth and tongue, maybe some sort of misguided attempt at catching the weak animal-like sounds trembling on Geralt’s lips. Jaskier fingers faltered only briefly but even that was an unconscionable crime judging from the noise it wrenched from Geralt. 

“How can you—“ Jaskier started, completely at a loss at how far beyond they were from anything he had even heard rumour of, let alone experienced. Geralt’s pleasured shivers had become more a terrible, beautiful sort of quaking, and yet he pushed for more. He fucked with his entire body, grasping desperately at Jaskier, impossibly still hard and wanting. “How much can you take, Geralt, have mercy— _Fuck_.”

Though Geralt shook as hard and as long as he had before, his insides clutching tight at stroking fingers, and his cock jerked, his release this time was little more than a fitful, spurting trickle. 

All Jaskier could hear were Geralt’s shallow, stuttering breaths. He didn’t even realize his fingers had stilled until Geralt’s grip on his arm began to hurt. Murmuring soothing nonsense, he kissed Geralt’s sweat-soaked face and gently withdrew his hand. 

Geralt’s thighs clamped tight. 

“Now I know you can’t be serious,” Jaskier laughed lightly and kissed his chin. 

Geralt’s hold didn’t waver. A strained, desolate sort of noise built deep in Geralt’s heaving chest. He was flushed and winded like Jaskier had never seen, not even in the fiercest of fights. He glistened with sweat as if he’d been dipped in oil, his hair twisted into dark, wet hanks. 

Jaskier shoved up awkwardly with his arm still trapped. “Are you alright? Geralt? _Geralt_.”

Geralt’s eyes opened slowly. Their bright gold was dull and dazed, clearly unfocused. He wet his lips, throat working silently. Jaskier leaned close, the taste of panic on his tongue as he cupped Geralt’s face, tried to soothe. 

Geralt swallowed hard, wet his lips again, and said, “Once more.”

Jaskier rocked back, staring. “What?”

“Again,” Geralt said, “fuck me again.”

“I don’t think—”

“Just once.”

“That doesn’t seem— I mean, you couldn’t—” 

Geralt rubbed his face against Jaskier’s chest, eyes slipping shut, mouth falling slack. His lips were a shining, impossible red. “ _Please_.”

Jaskier drew in a long breath, held it. “Will—” He grit his teeth as Geralt nuzzled in harder, all soft hair and sharp stubble and warm, wet breath. “Will you be alright if I do?”

Geralt rolled sluggishly onto his back, drawing his knees up and splayed wide. It wasn’t exactly the answer Jaskier had been looking for, but it was an answer. One that Jaskier had to decide if he trusted. He looked at Geralt sprawled across the bed, his body marked and stained, ravaged not by monster or man but his own staggering pleasure. 

“Alright, okay,” Jaskier said, crawling on hands and knees between Geralt’s legs. “Okay, I’ll— Fuck, Geralt. Are you sure?”

One hand twisted up in the bedclothes, the other in his own hair, Geralt nodded.

Jaskier swallowed back a whimper. He ached absolutely everywhere. Faced with irrefutable proof, it was nonetheless nigh impossible to grasp that Geralt’s mutations meant he could be pushed to orgasm one after another as a woman could. It was even something Jaskier took great joy in doing. But for them, his mouth and hands were all he needed.

He was half-hard again and certain he could get all the way there. The thought of touching his cock so soon filled him with a curious sort of dread. Being inside Geralt again now would feel amazing, he was sure. Just as sure as he was that he already felt stripped raw. And even still with all of that, he had no idea why he hesitated; Geralt, who for years asked for nothing and claimed to want even less, had asked for this.

“Breathe,” Jaskier said, “just breathe,” entirely for his own benefit as he bent low, licked tentatively at Geralt’s come-drenched cock. It was unbelievably hot to the touch as he mouthed up its length, still firm when he licked less cautiously at the head. It took no time at all for the mess on Geralt to dirty his face. He barely even tasted the salt of skin through bitter come before Geralt lifted his knees, caught and held one to his chest in shameless display. 

Demand, request, or plea, Jaskier didn’t know. It didn’t even matter. He knelt up with Geralt’s legs slung over his shoulders, laid a sloppy kiss to the inside of Geralt’s knee, and took hold of his cock. His breath hissed through his teeth. He was nowhere near as hard as he had been the first time, and could coax barely a dribble of oil from the vial. But hard enough and reduced to spitting on his own hand, he lined up, braced, and pushed in.

Stars exploded onto the backs of his eyelids. Geralt was so soft, so loose. As much as Geralt wanted more his body was tiring, could only clutch weakly at the drag of Jaskier’s cock against his insides. If that alone didn’t drive Jaskier to madness then the sound of it, the obscene wet slap of flesh into flesh surely would. He grit his teeth and leaned all his weight into the fold of Geralt’s body when one leg slipped from his shoulder and caught on the crook of his elbow. Blunt nails dug into Geralt’s shoulders as Jaskier fought for the strength to keep him bent double and spread open, to hold him arched and squriming into the shortest, filthiest, soul-shattering fuck of Jaskier’s life.

Jaskier came with a short, strangled cry. He was sure he could actually _feel_ his cock swell as his balls tightened up, forced out every last drop in a surge that left him gasping, burnt up to nothing but ashes and a memory of pleasure so fierce it hurt. 

Jaskier withdrew in a daze, Geralt’s legs slipping from his arms to sprawl wide. His body felt heavy and weak, utterly and literally drained. From a very long way off he heard Geralt say his name. He mumbled some nonsense meant to be reassuring and fumbled between Geralt’s legs, pushed into him with a clumsy tangle of fingers. He muttered apologies that he hadn’t been able to hold back, that he’d wanted to so badly. And he tried, oh how he tried now to fingerfuck Geralt into that one last orgasm, and couldn’t manage even that. He ended up slumped halfway over Geralt, hand wedged into place by one knee, and focused solely on keeping his fingers stiff for Geralt to use as he pleased. 

No, he couldn’t think about that. His odds of surviving the night were atrocious as it was, he couldn’t dwell on thoughts of Geralt using his exhausted but fully willing body as some sort of sex toy. 

“Too late,” he said, words slurred by having mashed his face into Geralt’s ribs. His laugh sounded a bit hysterical even to his own ears. He _had_ to be at least a little hysterical by now; undone, overwrought, sex-crazed. That was the only logical explanation for why he tucked his thumb just a little into Geralt alongside the tight crush of his fingers.

Geralt bucked so violently Jaskier jumped, fearing that had finally been the limit. But if Geralt even had a limit, they weren’t close to it yet. Suspended in some sort of extreme sexual limbo--perhaps a taste of what a mage could do--he wondered absently if his wrist might break as Geralt clung to his arm, frantically fucking Jaskier’s hand until he froze for barely a second and slumped back, gulping down great big lungfuls of air. 

Muzzily, Jaskier lifted his head. The tiniest bead of come clung to Geralt’s cock, barely even squeezed free of the slit. He blinked rapidly a few times to make his vision stop jumping around, but his eyes weren’t the problem. Geralt was shaking so hard the entire bed moved. 

Jaskier wiped his hand on the ruined blanket. He didn’t even bother trying to sit up, making do with a feeble shuffle-scoot. It felt like being underwater, pushing against a lazy current, and a little like being engulfed in heavy valley mists, everything strange and unreal despite having passed that way a dozen times before. Fumbling for the least-filthy corner of a blanket, he carefully wiped sweat-tangled hair and tears from Geralt’s eyes. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, tongue thick and clumsy. “You’re going to shake us both to pieces, Geralt. Please look at me.”

Geralt’s eyes were more pupil than iris, and he couldn’t seem to focus properly, but he at least managed to nod when asked if he could hear.

“Are you alright?” Jaskier asked, gathering Geralt close, gently stroking his shoulder, his side, along his arm, over and over as far as he could reach. He had to gather himself together enough to ask a second time before Geralt eventually grunted a vague-sounding _yes_ , and by then the bed no longer felt cast adrift in a storm. 

“Oh good,” Jaskier sighed, and passed out. 

When Jaskier stirred again, the candles had burned low. From the hushed dark he guessed it to be somewhere in those odd hours between far too late and much too early.

A warm weight against his side suddenly jerked him fully awake. He remembered the dazed, defenseless look on Geralt’s face, how Geralt had _needed_ him, and he had just rolled over and gone to sleep like a pig. He shoved up and immediately collapsed, groaning. His body had turned to lead. Solidly beaten lead. 

“Go back to sleep,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier groaned again. He concentrated on breathing for a moment, noticing the familiar smell of the fur from Geralt’s pack, the weight of it resettling about his shoulders. “Why’re you awake?”

“The fire,” Geralt said. “You’re cold.”

Jaskier hummed agreeably. He _was_ cold. And sore. And incredibly, deliriously happy, which made the rest matter not at all. “I didn’t hear what brought you to Vizima.”

“I thought it was obvious.”

Jaskier snorted. “Ass.”

This time it was Geralt who hummed agreeably. All Jaskier could do was laugh, tucked close to Geralt’s pleasant heat. He listened to the fire crackle, drifted on the edge of sleep. Long minutes passed. 

“What?” asked Geralt. 

“I— I’m not sure,” Jaskier said quietly, and continued to mull it over. It felt a little like regret that it had taken so long for them to come together like this, except there was nothing to regret; they wouldn’t be here now without everything that had come before. If it were like anything at all, it would be the same bittersweet ache of his body, exhausted and satisfied, but that wasn’t exactly it, either. “I truly don’t know.”

The bed dipped as Geralt rolled onto his side, his hand under the fur resting familiarly low on Jaskier’s bare hip. “If it was too much—”

“It was definitely much too much,” Jaskier said, lifting his head to stare incredulously at Geralt. He might not be able to see much in the flickering dimness, but Geralt most definitely could. “Do you have any idea what you looked like? How it felt to do that, touch you like that?”

Geralt eased back onto the pillows. “No.”

“What is it like for you?”

Geralt shivered a little and dragged in a slow breath. “I’m not the poet.”

“But that,” Jaskier said, reaching out blindly. “Right there. You’re trembling.”

“What about it,” Geralt said, catching Jaskier’s hand midair. 

“It’s beautiful.” Jaskier tugged Geralt’s hand close, pressed his cheek to the back of it. “I’ve never seen someone so— so—“

“Slutty for dick?”

Jaskier slapped Geralt’s hand. “ _Consumed_ by pleasure.” Maybe that was it, the fierce desire to see it again and again, and the fear that it really would consume him. “You must feel so much.”

Geralt said nothing.

“Don’t do that with me,” Jaskier said, ignoring all his aches and pains to curl against Geralt’s front. He held Geralt’s hand tightly between his own, close to his chest and heart. Withdrawing into himself was Geralt’s way and Jaskier accepted it, but not now. Not after all they’d just shared. He couldn’t bear it. “I may have been half out of my mind with pleasure but I saw you. I felt you come apart—“ he paused, wet his dry lips “—from the inside.”

“I said if—”

“Again and again, Geralt,” Jaskier pressed, bullishly stomping all over Geralt’s attempt at giving him an easy way out. “I almost wouldn’t believe it except every last inch of me is sore. _Especially_ those inches.”

He felt more than heard a quiet laugh, and waited, giving Geralt space to think. Metaphorical space only, as he still held stubbornly tight to their clasped hands and Geralt’s unexpectedly sweet vulnerability. 

Just before Jaskier’s limited patience ran out, Geralt said, “You liked having me this way.”

Jaskier groaned. In truth he liked having Geralt in any way he could. “Please don’t say it like that. If I get hard now I fear it might well and truly fall off.”

Warm breath touched Jaskier’s face. “You’ll get used to it.”

 _Devil_ , Jaskier thought as Geralt took his mouth, _demon. Wicked, terrible beast._ “I can’t,” he moaned, “mercy, have mercy.”

“I want you to kiss me,” Geralt said, bumping his lips to Jaskier’s, gently cajoling. “Just a kiss.”

“It’s not,” Jaskier said, but it was too late. It couldn’t ever be just a kiss again. He’ll remember always how Geralt sounds and tastes, how he succumbed so completely. The way he took and took and begged for more, for everything Jaskier could give. 

And how he knew everything Jaskier had was already his. 

Jaskier whimpered with Geralt’s tongue in his mouth. “Oh, oh,” he whined, ducking his head. Maybe if he didn’t try to come. Maybe as long as they both kept their hands far, far away from his cock. Maybe he could just lie there stiff as a plank and let Geralt kiss him as much as he bloody well wanted and enjoy the arousal curling tight in his gut until it either just went away or he passed out again. 

“I could use my mouth,” Geralt offered. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier spat. “Oho, fuck you.” Geralt was laughing at him. That was a _chuckle_. “You, you— You _fuck_.”

Geralt shrugged and kissed him again.

The kissing went on lazily for some time. Jaskier soon relaxed, that first hot rush fading to a mellow ache. He silently congratulated his prick on keeping up with a witcher’s apparently insatiable sex drive.

Which coincidentally was when he found himself lifted bodily from the bed and into an inelegant sprawl directly on top of Geralt. He grunted, eyes crossing, as his cock caught on Geralt’s thigh and was dragged straight down, crushed against his balls.

“Hm,” Geralt said to the minor inconvenience of gelding his lover. He hiked up Jaskier’s hips, sorted things away, and promptly went back to biting at Jaskier’s throat. 

Jaskier’s eyes had yet to uncross. While the angle was certainly preferable, it remained that they were pressed very firmly together from chest to mid-thigh. On its own that was rather pleasant. If only Geralt would stop _moving_.

“I’m flattered,” Jaskier grit out. “Honestly. Highly— _fuck_ —gratified that you find me so irresistible. But I’m going to die and if you try to come one more time your balls are going to shrivel like plums in the sun which can’t be healthy, oh it really really can’t.”

Geralt said, “I can come dry.”

Completely out of breath, all Jaskier could do was gurgle. Inconceivable. What did that even _mean_. 

Jaskier latched desperately onto one word from that impossible sentence. “Yes, dry. Too dry. Please please please stop humping me for one blessed minute.”

Geralt did instantly, and even grunted something that sounded suspiciously like an apology.

“Don’t be sorry. Alright, you smug bastard, be a little sorry,” Jaskier allowed when Geralt snorted at him. “I’m filthy and aching and I really do wish we could keep going, I do. Oh, do I. But—“

“I waited a long time, Jaskier.”

Jaskier screwed his eyes shut as his heart clenched. The two decades they’d known each other wasn’t so very long given Geralt’s expected lifespan, especially if he gave up his witchering sooner rather than later. Jaskier had already planned on bludgeoning him into retirement long before his own wandering days were behind them. All tonight had done was move the schedule up a little. 

Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s hand as if that could say everything he couldn’t. “I won’t be able to move for days as it is.”

“Bath,” Geralt said eloquently. 

“...bath,” Jaskier echoed. “Geralt, it’s too early for the _roosters_. It’ll take ages to gather and heat the water even if you yanked some poor sod from his bed.”

“We have water.”

“It’s cold!”

“I’ll heat it.”

“It’s _dirty_.”

“Cleaner than we are.”

Jaskier cleared his throat purposefully to hide a snicker. “I can’t walk.”

“I’ll carry you.”

“It, ah. Hm.”

Geralt waited patiently. 

“It’s too small! For both of us. Together.”

“Sit on my lap.”

Jaskier collapsed into helpless laughter. Geralt petted his back soothingly. “I bet you’d like that,” he said between giggles. “Sit on your _lap_.”

Geralt made a noise Jaskier chose to interpret as _Yes, I would, that’s why I said it. Please consider it strongly._

But Geralt’s touch remained gentle and undemanding, so different from before and not quite like when he massaged Jaskier’s aching muscles after long days of travel, either. This was touch for its own sake and nothing else, not even to fulfill a need. So that too had changed tonight.

“In the morning,” Jaskier offered, and wriggled carefully around until he could pillow his head on Geralt’s shoulder and the fur was nicely snug without any pesky drafts. He yawned. “Make that afternoon.”

Geralt’s arm settled comfortably over his waist, hand resting suspiciously close to his groin. But Geralt behaved, even with his cock poking Jaskier’s side as if to remind him of its continued state of neglect. 

“Feel free to take care of that as long as you don’t wake me up,” Jaskier told him sleepily. “But if you jerk off on my ass, you’ll be the one who cleans it up.”

Geralt’s cock gave an interested little twitch. “Is that a promise?”

“Always,” Jaskier mumbled. He lingered in semi-wakefulness, fully expecting Geralt to go for it. And sort of looking forward to it, in all honesty, since he could just lie there and enjoy.

Geralt continued to simply hold him, his slow, warm breaths softly stirring the hair at the crown of Jaskier’s head. The dark was heavy, the air close. Jaskier felt cradled in it, cherished. He drew in a long, slow breath. “S’nice,” he said, just as sleep took him.

“Always,” said Geralt, and held him a little tighter.

**Author's Note:**

> If you loved this, you'll love [Even a small love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22473670) by [shecrows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shecrows/pseuds/shecrows), which I found just _after_ I sent this for beta. We are both incredible genuises.


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